Sirenje
srca, Expansion del corazon / moj hrvatski kruh
Kucni performance, 28. 09. 2000.
PRVA PRICA
Moja majka cesto je pekla kruh. Bijeli kruh. Mirisalo bi na
dom. Moja majka je odlicna domacica, ali ja nisam uspjela
puno nauciti od nje. Kruh sam pekla prvi put na Novu godinu
1995. na otoku Solti. Bila je velika zima, nismo mogli izaci
iz kuce, a ja sam pokusavala uspostaviti instant dom. Od onda
nisam pekla kruh. Ali pekla ga je Masha, moja prijateljica
i uciteljica kruha. Ona je pekla i jos uvijek pece vjerujem,
predivne kruhove. Stavljala je na Solti ljubicaste cvjetove
ruzmarina u masu za kruh. Masha je pekla kruhove tamne, od
svih vrsta brasna i mirisali su na davne domove. Dakle od
1995. nisam pekla kruh, sve dok nismo dosli u Mexico, 5 godina
kasnije. Pocela sam peci kruh na zimu 1999/2000.
Pocela
sam ga peci jer:
A/ trebala sam miris doma s Ericom i Lukom
B/ nismo imali novaca
C/ htjela sam sebi dokazati da ja to mogu
D/ imala sam se potrebu importirati
Prvi kruhovi
nisu bili bas uspjesni. Koristila sam Royal. Nakon duzeg vremena
uspjela sam pronaci svjezi kvasac. Moji kruhovi su bili sve
bolji i bolji. Kruh iz Chiconcuaca koji sam pekla na Uskrs
bio je najbolji do tada, zbog visinske razlike. Prozvali su
ga pan Croata. Onda je teta Rosalina htjela nauciti praviti
kruh. Sve sam joj rekla, kako i koliko, ali joj nije uspijevao.
Omjeri, uvijek omjeri... Ali kako smo isli kod njih vrlo brzo
nakon toga, Rosalina i ja smo zajedno umijesili kruh. Dva
krasna kruha. Naucila je. Sretna sam zbog kruha. Zbog mirisa
i obitelji. Topline kruha kad se umota u krpu. Kao da je ziv.
Zbog Luke i Erica. Kad ga jedu. Uvijek dok ga pecem sjetim
se svoje majke i Mashe. Cesto dok ga stavljam peci mislim
na Ericovu majku Mimi koju nisam upoznala. Ova pecnica je
bila njena. Rosalina se mozda sjeti mene...
PRIMER
HISTORIA
Mi madre seguido hacia pan. Pan blanco. Olía a hogar.
Mi madre es muy buena ama de casa, pero yo no aprendí
mucho de ella. Horneé pan por primera vez en el año
nuevo de1995, en la isla de Sholta. Hacía mucho frío
y no pudimos salir de casa, y yo trataba de hacer un hogar
instantaneo. Desde entonces no había hecho pan. Pero
Masha, mi amiga y gurú de pan lo hacía. Ella
horneaba y creo que todavía sigue haciendo hermosos
panes, ella en Sholta ponía flores violetas de Romero
en la masa para el pan. Masha horneaba panes negros de diferentes
tipos de harina, y olían como en los antiguos hogares.
Entonces desde 1995 no había hecho pan, hasta que venímos
a México cinco años después. Empecé
a hacer pan en el Invierno de 1999/2000.
Comenzé
a hacerlo porque:
A/ necesitaba el olor de hogar con Eric y Luka
B/ no teníamos dinero
C/ quería probarme a mi misma que podía hacerlo
D/ me ayudó a inmigrar
Los primeros
no tuvieron mucho éxito. Usaba Royal. Después
algún tiempo logré encontrar levadura. Mis panes
eran cada vez mejores. El pan de Chiconcuac que hice para
Semana Santa fué el mejor de todos, por la diferencia
de altura. Le llamaron Pan Croata. Despúes la tía
Rosalina quería aprender a hacerlo. Le dije todo, como
y cuanto, pero no pudo. Las medidas, siempre las medidas...
Hasta que fuí a su casa e hicimos dos hermosos panes
juntas. Ella aprendió. Estoy felíz con el pan.
Por el olor y la familia. La calidez del pan cuando se envuelve
en el trapo. Pareciera que está vivo. Por Luka y Eric
cuando lo comen. Siempre que lo hago me acuerdo de mi madre
y Masha. Seguido cuando lo pongo a hornear pienso en la mamá
de Eric, Mimi a quien no conocí, porque este horno
era de ella. Rosalina talvez se acuerda de mi...
THE FIRST
STORY
My mother
often was baking bread. White bread. It was smelling like
home. My mother is excellent housewife, but I couldn't learn
a lot from her. I baked bread first time on New Year 1995
on the island Sholta. It was so cold that we couldn't leave
the house and I was trying to restore an instant home.
Since
then I haven't baked a bread. But Masha, my friend and teacher
of making a bread did. She was doing and I believe still do
beautiful breads. On Sholta she had been putting violet flowers
of rosemary into the mass for bread. Masha was doing dark,
integral breads from all kinds of flours and they smelled
like antique homes.
So, I
didn't bake bread since 1995, until we came in Mexico, five
years later. I started to make a bread on the winter 1999/2000.
I started
to bake it because:
A/
I needed a smell of home with Eric and Luka
B/ we hadn't money
C/ I wanted to proof to myself that I can do it
D/ I needed to import myself
The first
breads wasn't so successful. I used Royal. After some time
I succeed to find a yeast. My bread was better and better.
The bread
from Chiconcuac that I baked on Eastern was the best till
then, because of the
Then aunt
Rosalina wanted to learn how to make a bread. I told her everything,
how much and how, but it didn't work. Proportions, always
proportions... But, soon after, when we went to her house,
Rosalina and I together made a bread. Two wonderful breads.
She learned.
I'm happy
because of bread. Because of Eric and Luka. When they eat
it. Always when I bake it I remember my mother and Masha.
Often when I'm putting it into the oven I think on Eric's
mother Mimi who I haven't met. This oven was hers. Rosalina
maybe remembers me...
.....
DRUGA
PRICA JEDNAKO ISTINITA
Dolazim iz zemlje u stalnoj tranziciji, interzone, Balkanskog
uzdrmanog teritorija, socialisticke povijesti, Mediteranskog
temperamenta, slavenske staticne kulture. Dugo sam se importirala.
Imigrirala. Sto radim i dalje. Stigla sam u komadima. Naknadno
su stizali ostali. Sastavljala sam se kao cyborg. I mijenjala,
sastavljala drugacija. Prioriteti su se promijenili, majka,
zena, domacica, pricalica prica. Oduvijek mi je bilo jasno
da je umjetnost neposredno iskustvo, nikad je nisam odvajala
od zivota, sada ponajmanje. Jednostavno se jezim umjetnika
ciji rad je prioritetan nad njihovim zivotima ili njihovom
djecom. Tako sam jako ponosna na ovu slozenicu, "art
of housewife", i onako su oduvijek moja najdraza djela
nastajala dok bi prala sudje ili peglala. Kruh mi je pomogao.
Zbog mirisa, dio moje zenske horizontalne povijesti, koji
sam uhvatila ovdje u Mexicu. Zbog mjerenja vremena. Osim toga
pravljenjem kruha dokazujem da ipak nisam nesposobna u kuhinji.
Sto je bila uspjesno projecirana slika mog oca, moje majke,
mog bivseg muza, koju sam konacno i sama prihvacala. Pitam
se zar sam morala otici toliko daleko od svoje majke da bih
naucila peci kruh? I kruh je tako postao snazna veza s njom.
Kruh mijesiti intimni je cin. Vrlo je intiman prostor kruha
i bica koje ga mijesi. Odnos u kojem se u kruh moze useliti
mnogo od bica. Moze biti raznih oblika i rezova. Stavljam
mu oziljke, rane na tijelo da se bolje pece. Ima nesto jako
zivo u toj masi, jako tjelesno. Ponekad bih ga ranjavala i
plakala, naravno od svoje boli. Cesto sam plakala, mozda zato
sto mi nedostaje more. I naucila sam da je lakse oprostiti
mjeseci kruh, od oprosta bolje naraste. Dizanjem i pecenjem
oblik se uvijek mijenja, ekspandira, deformira. A primjetila
sam da se oblik srca promijeni vise nego drugi jednostavniji
oblici. To mi je vrlo blisko jer moje srce se prilicno izoblicilo
i naraslo. Izoblicilo se gubitcima, napustanjima, ali raste.
LA OTRA
HISTORIA IGUALMENTE VERDADERA
Vengo de un país que siempre está en transición,
interzona, sacudido territorio Balcánico, pasado socialista,
temperamento Mediteraneo, estática cultura Eslava.
Por mucho tiempo me inmigré. Lo que aún sigo
haciendo. Vine en partes, Las otras llegaron después.
Me reconstruí como un cyborg. Y cambié. Las
prioridades han cambiado, madre, mujer, esposa, ama de casa,
contadora de cuentos. Desde siempre fué claro para
mi que el arte es una experiencia imediata, nunca lo he dividido
de la vida, ahora menos que nunca. Me paran los pelos de punta
los artistas que piensan que el arte va separado de la vida.
Así estoy muy orgullosa en esta nueva disciplina, art
of housewife, de cualquier manera todos mis mejores trabajos
fueron pensados cuando lavaba los trastes ó planchando.
El pan me ayudó. Por el olor, parte de mi historia
feminina horizontal, que atrapé aqui en México.
Me ayudó también para medir el tiempo. Haciendo
pan también probé que no soy incapaz en la cocina.
Ya que era la visión proyectada de mi padre, madre
y ex esposo, que al final yo lo aceptaba tambien. Me sigo
preguntando ¿tuve que irme tan lejos de mi madre para
aprender a hacer pan? Entonces el pan se convirtió
en una fuerte conexión con ella.
Amazar el pan es un acto íntimo. Es un espacio muy
íntimo entre el pan y el ser que lo amaza. La relación
en que es posible transferir mucho del ser en el pan. Puede
haber distintas formas y cortes. Hago en él cortes,
estigmas para que se hornee mejor. Hay algo muy vivo en esa
masa, algo corporeo. Aveces lo corto y lloro, por supuesto
por mi dolor. Lloraba muy seguido, tal vez porque extraño
el mar. Y aprendí que es más fácil perdonar
haciendo pan. Cuando se hornea y sube la masa la forma siempre
cambia, se expande, se deforma. Y me dí cuenta que
la forma del corazón se cambia más que otras.
Eso es muy cercano a mí, porque mi corazón cambió
de forma con las pérdidas y creció.
SECOND
STORY (true likewise)
I'm coming
from the country of constant transition, interzone, shaken
Balkan territory, socialistic past, Mediterranean temperament,
static Slavic culture. I have been importing myself for the
long time. Immigrating. What I still do. I came in pieces.
Other components came after. I reconstructed myself like a
cyborg. And I changed, became composed different.
Priorities
have changed: mother, woman, housewife, storyteller...
It was
always clear to me that art is immediate experience, I never
divided it from the life, now less then ever. I distrust artists
whose work is priority on their lives or their children. So,
Iím very proud on this term, art of housewife, anyway my favorite
works originate while I was washing the dishes or ironing.
Bread
helped me. The smell became part of my horizontal female history
that I found here in Mexico and the measuring of time. And,
by baking bread Iím proving that Iím not incapable in the
kitchen. The self image from my father, mother and my ex-husband,
which I accepted at the end. Iím asking myself : Did I have
to go so far away from my mother to learn to bake a bread?
And so,
bread became very strong connection with her. To knead a bread
is very intimate act. A very intimate space between the bread
and being who kneads it. A lot of a being can be moved in
a bread. Bread could take different forms and cuts. Iím putting
scars, stigmas on its body to be baked better. There is something
very alive in that mass, very corporal. Sometimes I cut a
heart into it and cried, sure of my pain. I cried often, maybe
because I miss the sea.
And I
learned that it is more easy to forgive, kneading a bread,
from a farewell it grows better. By growing and baking the
shape of the bread always changes, expands, deforms. And I
notice that the shape of the heart changes more than other
simple shapes. Itís very close to me because my heart is deformed
pretty much and grown. It has been deformed by loss and abandonments,
but itís growing.
Deidre
Hoguet
Citing from Memory
This project investigates memories of all the houses I've
lived in throughout my life. I have lived in a total of 14
houses (not including sub-lets!) and I am now age 27.
The barren, rocky slope of the mountain of
Velebit that divides the Adriatic coast from the war-torn
mountains of Croatia is the site for the refuge.
Legend has it that the slopes overlooking
the azure Adriatic Sea were once lush with oak tree woods
that were cut and used as piles on which the palaces of Venice
were erected. This early ecological catastrophe left the mountain
vulnerable to bura, a violent northern wind that left the
mountain naked and deserted but with a savagely beautiful
museum of tectonic forms that bathe in the sun.
Beyond the mountains, people have lived through
tumultuous times of war and peace and then the war again.
The shelter, provided by the United Nations,
is a simple structure that can house a single occupant. Its
inhabitable container is not wide enough for two people to
bypass each other. The container is suspended from a stainless
steel mast that is rooted in the stone below and rotates on
ball bearings like a weather vane, as not to compete with
the force of bura. The container is split into two halves:
one fixed and another that opens into the platform, a terrace
with a spectacular panorama. The back wall is a plate of mirror-polished
stainless steel while the front wall terrace is glazed. The
two planes are connected by a hydraulic hinge, operating with
the pressurized oil that is kept in the mast.
The shelter does not offer any of the utilities--
no water, electricity, satellite links, computers. For, the
prospective occupants have been either uprooted from their
homes -- just like the Velebit trees--and nothing can replace
that, or they were the ones who in their dogmatic arrogance
deprived the others of the basic appliances of our civilization.
Therefore, they themselves do not deserve them.
The refuge does offer a space of solitude
and introspection. By the mutual will of the occupant and
the wind, the kinetic geometry of the structure covers the
whole hostile three-dimensional world. The experience beyond
that is left undetermined. The object of observation behind
microscopic glass becomes the observer. In the visual duel
of the mirror and the glass, the images become projections
and self-projections, reflections and self-reflections. They
are unstable and fragile just like the thin glass pane between
the man and the abyss. Yet the images in the mirror are revealing
the real self, the real reality.
Down below at the sea, the shelter appears
as a flag, perhaps a battle flag. However, it is a flag that
changes its colors, from turquoise blue, indigo blue, gray
to crimson red at sunset.
Three years ago I started to document the
neighborhood and community where I grew up in Baroda, India.
These homes which belong(ed) to friends and family were once
open and familiar to me. Now they stand like silent entities--at
once intimate and at the same time mysterious. This goes for
my own childhood home.
Where once doors always remained open, now
the gates are firmly closed. The homes are locked up, perhaps
to be opened once a year to be dusted, or not at all. The
interiors become a distant memory, the exterior--a well-worn
shell that presents itself over and over again as I walk down
the quiet streets.
Most of the original families who lived here
have gone. With the death of the family elders, mainly the
sons inherited these homes and now live in the foreign lands
to which they emigrated (mostly to the UK and the USA), to
search for a ‘better’ life. Unable to care for them,
some of the homes are sold--often to individuals who themselves
live abroad but have roots in this part of the world and feel
strongly that they must keep a footing at "home."
And so, this notion of claiming a home "back
home" but without the intention of living in it and making
it into one, is the story of these homes that were and will
continue to be left behind. Their history no longer speaks
of the people who lived or will live in them, but relates
volumes about what has been lost in time.
From:
"dario kavara" <darioka@hotmail.com>
To: danicadakic@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: Pozdrav
Date: Sat, 17 Nov 2001 14:16:55
Draga
Danice, pogledao sam web page. Bas mi je drago vidjeti vas
projekat "going on".
Ja sam trenutno u Berlinu i uzivam u ovome gradu. Mozda jos
uvijek jedinom mjestu u Evropi gdje covjek kao siromasan umjetnik
moze opstati. Ja sam ti dobio norvesko drzavljanstvo. Ljudi
mi cestitaju na drzavljanstvu a ja razmisljam, ovo mi je cetvrto
drzavljanstvo, zamisli moje drzavne inflacije. Eto tako sada
pricam ljudima o planinama i skijanju kao mojoj kulturnoj
platformi. Ovdje se ponekad druzim sa Norvezanima koji su
kulturno izbjegli provinciju da bi se okusali u velikom gradu,
pa pricamo na ovome nasem euro-engleskom na stranim akcentima
kao da je NY ovdje a ne tamo. Kao da 10 kilometara izmedju
suburbanog i urbanog predstavlja isti herojski pothvat odlaska
od vlastitog doma, stana, sobe, kreveta. Negdje gdje covjek
moze zivjeti vlastitu slobodu. Svi smo mi izbjegli od nasih
familija, drzava, djevojaka, muzeva, vojski, seksualnih identiteta,
dosadnih poslova, sela, provincija, klasicnih umjetnika, ljubavnih
avantura, roditeljskih obaveza, beckih snicli, neplacenih
racuna... Svi smo mi ovdje u New Yorku, a ne tamo. Samo oni
koji su stvarno otisli znaju kako je dobro otici, jer kad
se vratimo tamo odakle smo otisli shvatimo da tamo nismo ni
bili. Kada ljude i gradove koje smo zivjeli vidimo kao odstranjene
od nasega tijela, kao dijelove uklonjene hirurgijom naseg
stvarnog odlaska.
Eto
tako ti ja zivim sto bi Francuzi rekli APRES-SKI
Beka
Nanic
Perfect
Strangers: Some Thoughts on Connotation and Denotation
of Words
The
last couple of years of my New York teaching experience
have turned me into a digital dictionary opponent. Not
that I have anything against digital dictionaries per
se, but because I believe they prevent students from
making intelligent, logical conclusions. Of course most
foreign students, without even trying to guess the meaning
of a new word, run for their digital dictionaries--small,
fast and convenient. And often inaccurate.
Language in its complexity and layeredness is so much
more than a dictionary entry. For example, blue denotes
"the color of the clear sky", but feeling
blue, as you know, is something entirely different.
Or, denotation of the word perfect will not help you
much understand the expression perfect strangers, yet
the contextual implication may well suggest the meaning
of "complete" or "total".
Let
me tell you a funny classroom story where actually Serbo-Croatian
helped me understand my Japanese student. He had written
in his essay... "It was hard, nevertheless, in
the end I won to myself. A native English teacher, with
or without a dictionary--digital, paper or whichever--would
have had a hard time decoding he meant "pobediti
sebe" (I overcame), but the fact that we have an
identical expression in our language made it a piece
of cake for me.
Beka
Nanic
Linguist and visual artist, born in Belgrade, lives
and works in New York since 92. Currently teaches English
as a Second Language at Baruch College, City University
of New York.
Democracy
91 installation
Sherry Frumkin Gallery
L. A. International
Biennial Invitational 95
What
one can see is a street. Empty. One could also see people
at the end of twentieth century, but I don't want to.
That's why I am here alone. Since I am here alone it's
up to me to name the street. From now on, let's call
it a road. The road for my feet.
Nada
Nesin was born in 1960 in Novi Sad, Yougoslavia, and
has lived in New York since 1993.
.....
